The Real Hedonist
by Louise Proell
Summary: Mina Kent is a single, working girl in the Big Apple. Unlike the Bridget Jones's of this world, she loves her life, and her single status. Until she meets the serious, breathtaking Malachite Bryce, who makes her reevaluate her life. Does she REALLY nee
1. When The Stilleto Fits

Disclaimer:

No Sailor Moon for me, leave comments, please. I hope you guys like it, since Mina stories aren't written a lot.

The Real Hedonist

Chapter One - When The Stiletto Fits...

Oh…my…God… What have I done? Why? Why? I asked myself, staring down at Tyler's still form, his chest rising and falling in perfect harmony -- Tyler Markham, my co-worker. Oh Christ. This is a new low for me. I pause in my nervous (albeit silent) pacing, forcing myself to sit down on the corner of my bed. OK, think. This is a simple situation, really. All I have to do is tell Tyler that he should mention this to absolutely no one, and we'll just avoid each other at any point in the future. I breathe out. Yes, yes, good plan.

It just shows how being calm and collected in these types of...um, circumstances really helps. I'm sure Tyler will agree with what I have to say. I mean, it's his job, too. Plus, it would never work out, and then it'd just be awkward whenever we see each other. Everyone else will treat us differently, I'll be known as someone who slept with a co-worker. Maybe Tyler will even say I used guilt to push him into the relationship!

Wait…what am I saying? I don't even like him.

I watched his face as I thought about the speech I had to deliver in about thirty minutes. I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It's six-twelve. Soon I'll have to wake him up, straighten things out and make sure he understands what will happen and why it'll happen. Not that Tyler is stupid or anything; he wouldn't work at a prestigious scouting agency if he were, but there's still the chance that he won't want to break it off or part in a civilized manner. I really wouldn't know -- we hadn't exchanged more than two words before last night.

I get up again, pace across the room, cursing the awful Christmas party -- we workers – dutifully attended -- as if they didn't work us hard enough already. Of course, any sane person would immediately stake out the open bar and order a couple of drinks to dull the otherwise strong and painful voice reminding you that business dinner parties were your least favourite thing in the world. Because you have to endure them and watch yourself at the same time so you don't accidentally make an ass of yourself by engaging in an embarrassing dance ritual, or drink enough to make an alcoholic proud and promptly make horrifying conversational attempts with the most important person in the room.

OK, calm down. There's no need to recall that memory of a new girl asking the seventy-year-old guest of honor if they still had sex.

My momentary nervous breakdown was put on hold as the subject in question stirred under the sheets. Time to get into my hustler-mode and be ready to talk sense into him (and if that failed, threaten to tell everyone he was a lousy lover). Not that I remember, being so thoroughly drunk I must have forgotten my own mother's name after all those delicious Cosmopolitans and Manhattans. (I have a rule, that in public I must only drink lady-like cocktails, and reserve my favourite Gulping Vodka, straight from the bottle practice only for utterly private moments where no breathing human being can lay eyes on me).

"M-Mina?" Tyler wondered quietly, stifling a big yawn. What a charmer.

"Uh, yes... it's me," I said lamely, wilting on the inside. My lack of eloquence sometimes makes me cry. I focused on his stunned face.

"Did we-I mean, last night..." he trailed off, staring at me expectantly. Maybe it's because he has only just awakened, but I don't remember ever greeting him half-dressed in the morning.

I ponder for a split second and review my options. Its times like these that make me wish I had my notepad to write it all out. Tyler does not know whether or not we have actually "done it." I am eighty percent certain we had. What if the knowledge of our drunken, one-night stand would somehow make him think that we are in a relationship? Yes, I know what a far stretch that is; men in New York look for a noncommittal fuck before moving on. But, again, I have no clue what Tyler is like, and I can't risk jeopardizing my career at the office because of whatever he thinks.

So going out on a limb, I confirm: "No, actually. We came close, though. But I was still wearing my underwear when I woke up." What can I say? I'm a sensational liar.

"Oh," he said plainly. His short brown hair is messed up; he clutches the white sheet guardedly and seems eternally relieved. Wow, I did not know the prospect of having had to do anything sexual with me was so unpleasant. "That's good 'cause I have a girlfriend." I blinked. Erase anything I had thought about Tyler prior to those words.

He smiles wolfishly up at me, and glances at the clock. "Right--well, I'm sure that is a testament to how wild the party was. I guess we're not going to drink so much next time, right, Mina?"

I return the smile, albeit steely. "Sure," I reply noncommittally. Wow, am I resisting the urge to rip out his tongue. Standing up from the bed, I concluded that I must leave this unholy place as soon as humanly possible. Tyler's revelation really did not leave me feeling well. Apparently, he had not received the hint of my sudden claustrophobia, because he merrily went on talking about his supposed girlfriend. "I would have gone with her to the dinner, but she was out of the city. She's a PR person, you know, very important. Had to go with a client..." My mind successfully drowned out his incessant voice as I desperately searched for my overly extravagant and expensive Fendi handbag. It seems that during our drunken passion and need, my slinky, silver dress and, bag to match had been discarded as well as Tyler's dinner jacket and pants. Fortunately, I had donned my designer dress before he had woken up. The sleek fabric, somewhat crumpled after spending the night under Tyler's bed, which did not put me in a better mood, considering the price tag. My bag was, however, another story.

Struck with a sudden inspiration, I ran out into the living room where my heels lay on separate sides of the room, and my bag carefully set down on the neon-green couch. Collecting my personal belongings, I surveyed the room as I hadn't the previous day. It was done up in bright colors (presumably by the girlfriend) with an ugly bright-red sofa-chair in the corner of the room and dark-blue wallpaper. Well, at least the fact that she had no taste whatsoever in interior design, and by default, men, made me feel a wee bit better. And I was sleeping with her boyfriend, not she with mine.

"I'll see you at work, then, all right?" Tyler said slowly, coming out of his bedroom. "I'm glad we understand each other on this." He gave me an easy grin, and I wanted to shout at him, throw my heels at him, something! Honestly, I was relieved there were no proverbial strings attached to the one nightstand, but he was supposed to be begging me to reconsider, not smiling slyly at me as if we were partners in crime or something. "Whatever, Tyler." I tugged on my heels, grabbed my coat and sped out the door. Man, did I feel like shit. I tapped my foot against the bare floor, checking my watch impatiently. Honestly, don't you hate it when the elevator seems to wiz by when you don't need it, but when you do; it takes the better part of half an hour to reach your floor? The same thing with subway trains, or taxis. When you're waiting for someone to get off at the stop so you can go to a dinner, or a movie, it seems there's a train every thirty seconds. But when it's you who needs to get downtown urgently, it will take at least ten minutes to come around. Besides, it was too fucking early for anyone to be awake, what business did the elevator have being occupied?

Mercifully, the doors opened, and a very beautiful woman stepped out. She let out a gasp of surprise, staring at my dishevelled appearance, the wrinkled dress, my face pale and without make-up. I felt about two feet high as she swooped past me in an expensive fur coat. I hoped some animal activist would pour paint all over it.

I stepped out of the building, feeling the chill. OK, so I was in that -- morning-ugly-looking phase -- before I had the chance to make myself up, have my coffee, shower, etc. And for what? Sex I didn't remember? What a terrible way to start the day.

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When I finally made it to my apartment, there were three calls waiting. I threw my coat on the nearest chair, and shot straight to the bathroom, to inspect the damage. Oh, God. I looked awful. My face was all sallow and nasty looking, and my eyes had dark circles around them where the mascara and eyeliner I was wearing the night before smudged. See, this is what I mean. Teenage girls buy make-up by the boatload because we are constantly told that we need it to look beautiful. (Hey, companies can deny that all they want, but I don't see them mentioning that us girls will be able to stand up to anyone's standard without a gob of chemicals smeared all over our faces. And after all, they always imply that if you want to be beautiful and striking, use their cosmetics). And then you'd have some up-tight crow giving a press conference that all girls are beautiful no matter, which is a bunch of bullshit. We wouldn't need to buy your products if that were true, now would we? So after we use the make-up for about twenty years and finally wise up, or get the courage to think that we are actually very beautiful without it, our skin is ruined, pores show, and we look like a shell of our former selves. And the only way to look good is to smear on more make-up, thereby destroying our skin even further. It's a total Catch-22.

Yes, it was definitely too much thought before I had my morning coffee. I washed my face as gently as I could, before walking back to the living room to hear my messages. The first was from Ann. Her upset tone wafted to my ears. "Ugh, you won't believe it! He fucking dumped me! Jesus, we had the dinner, and then he's like, "I'm sorry, but this isn't working for me. I need some space." Can you fucking believe his nerve? After a year and a half!" Jenna screeched, breathing heavily. I could tell from the slight slur in her voice that she was already drunk, or at least on her way. "Anyway, I'm just calling to tell you that. I'm at a bar downtown. We'll see who misses who tomorrow!" She slammed down the phone.

Ann had been going out with Mark for a year and a half, and like she said, she thought it was finally getting serious. As in, he was going to ask her to move in with him, propose, or similar actions that would put her on solid ground. For all the time they had gone out, it was only dates, with Mark moving any stuff Jenna had left behind in his apartment (a la Carrie Bradshaw) back to her place. It left her feeling dispirited but determined to get the ring.

Ann is one of those girls who could probably have any guy she wants, and yet she sets her sights on the one who's content to dick her around so unashamedly. Another thing I should mention about her is that she's fucking crazy. And I can call her that, because we're friends. Her last boyfriend, who broke up with her via email, got his little brownstone (don't ask me what he was doing there) severely egged, and tipped upon with a trail of garbage on his walk-up. All this taught us the lesson that if we ever were to stop being friends with Ann, we had to arrange to move out of the city, change our names, and live in fear for the rest of our lives.

The next one was from Richard. I tiredly listened to it, wanting to lie down somewhere and sleep. "Hey, Mina. I was wondering what you were doing this week? You could come up to my place and we could...celebrate the New Year." His voice was deliberately low and husky. "Call me." Richard is a good fuck. I can always rely on him if there's no other guy, but I can't stomach his goddamn attempts at sounding hot. Trust me, a rough voice is nothing compared to knowing the guy is hung like a horse and knows how to use it.

The last message was from my sister, Abby: "Mina! Hello there. We just wanted to let you know we're holding Andrew's first birthday party on Thursday. It's at four, at our house. See you there!" Abby, Abby. I love my sister, but she's like the perfect little girl for Mom and Dad. They always bitched at us when we were teenagers, to settle down with the right guy, and give them lots of grandkids. Apparently, the time not spent with us during our childhood would go to our kids. Of course, Abby took this to heart. She married at 27, had her kid when she was 29, and presently, a content soccer-mom-in-the-making. Her husband, Pete insisted she quit working, stay at home, and plop out babies while he brought home the check. I always wondered how she could do that, leaving herself totally uncovered in case Peter ever left her. I never told her, though; she'd probably call up Mom and whine that I was wishing her marriage would fall apart.

Abby is a decent sister, but there's just something about living with someone for 16 years that makes you sick of them. But hey, I was two years younger, which would lift my spirits. And a party! Great, now my week was set. There would be all those stay-at-home moms that Abby, no doubt would have gathered around her, all clucking and cooing over Andrew. Oh, fuck, I definitely needed Ann (or any non-mom, for that matter) to be there. But first, I needed a nap, and maybe some schnapps.

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	2. Breakup Blues

Disclaimer: No SM ownership for me, maybe in another year or so -- comments all welcome.

**The Real Hedonist**

_Chapter 2 - Break-up Blues_

The day didn't seem to be progressing all that well. It was snowing outside, and everyone who came into the cafe had a bright red nose. The interior was warm, and quite busy.

"What a fucking asshole!" Ann fumed, sipping her Java Chip Frappucino. "I swear, why is it that every guy I dedicate my time to is either a total commitment-phobic, has some disgusting quirk, or doesn't like me? I mean, am I that ugly?" She paused dramatically, and sipped her drink reflectively.

"No, of course not!" we chorused our denial. This is pretty much standard procedure when it comes to break-ups with our circle. The girl, who's been dumped wallows in self-pity, pronounces that she's completely hideous and we merrily object. It's nice. And everyone knows a woman complimenting another woman is what really matters. We're usually so bitchy towards each other, and admitting that a girlfriend looks good is like a world affair. I know it's stuck-up, mean, ridiculous, and all, but hey, we're women, watching other women lose self-confidence is good for our ego. I know it's fucked up, but I just tell it like it is.

"Ann, don't fall for this. Honestly, just because he's stupid enough to leave you don't mean you should think it's your fault. We've been telling you're for months that Mark's not serious. When you tell him you want something more, he's just going to run away. I'd think you'd have learned that, dating for so many years." Amy patted her short dark hair, and studied Ann closely. "And, you being not good enough, or pretty enough. Do you even hear yourself? Of course it's not your fault." Amy is the brainiac out of all of us. She has a PhD in biology and a Masters in World Affairs. She teaches at NYU, but she's kind of that cool professor you want to teach you, but you never get.

"Amy tells it like it is, Ann," I said, smiling gently.

Raye stared at us, with a look of disgust. "Can you hear yourself? You shouldn't have to reassure her that she's beautiful. She shouldn't even have to worry about that! The way we see ourselves shouldn't depend on how men treat us. So he dumped you, it's not the end of the world, so stop your crying."

Ah, Raye -- she's whom we all strive to be like. Frankly, she doesn't care what anyone thinks of her. All she cares about is her own opinion. She's outspoken, very beautiful, with a cool job, and she's a total feminist.

See, I'm envied for my lack of attachment and emotion when it comes to having sex, and Raye is envied because she's, like, a poster girl for the kick-ass 21st-century woman. Then again, she can get away with it because she's unbelievably beautiful, and I can say so as it doesn't matter to Raye if I don't. Reason being, she knows she's beautiful. Basically, her beauty gives her self-confidence, and this is what makes her so beautiful. It's a catch-22, too, but in a good way.

Whenever Raye enters a restaurant, every man and woman's eyes swirl towards her. I don't know how she does it, but she just commands attention. The Maitre'D and their flock of Waiters couldn't get her seated fast enough, brandishing menus as they hovered about her table.

On one occasion, we went to this popular restaurant with Raye and were seated -- drinks in hand -- in thirty seconds flat. I went there myself a week later, and waited thirty minutes for an opening, and another fifteen to catch a waiter's eye. It was beyond embarrassing.

Ann raised her head and pursed her lips. "Yeah, you know what? You're right, Raye. Mark's totally missing out. If he didn't realise we had something good, then he can kiss my ass. Platonically, of course," she added slyly. Light chuckles passed over the table. "Actually, you know what? He had _such_ a tiny cock. It was -- this -- big." Ann demonstrated with her thumb and index finger. "And he couldn't even use it properly. I had to fake it _so_ many times."

Now that she was starting to get over the bastard, out came the denouncements concerning his meagre ability in bed. Standard practice in the situation Ann presently found herself in. But for most women, while with their guys, all was fine and great, and they were having orgasms at the drop of a hat. But declaring their boyfriends were anything less than perfect in bed would raise doubts about the relationship and what that would mean in the long-term.

Raye checked her expensive Gucci watch and drank the rest of her coffee. "I have to go. I have a meeting in twenty minutes. It was fun. Maybe we could do a movie tonight?"

"We could stay in and rent something," Amy suggested thoughtfully, her eyes sparkling with excitement. I love Amy, and she's way cool. And it's nice that she doesn't put the professor thing on with us, because having a woman whose life revolved totally around academia amidst our ranks would really spoil our girl-fun. "How about something classic? _Breakfast at Tiffany's_?"

I stared at Ann, and she nodded her approval. "OK, we'll do that. How about I pick up the movie and Amy can pick up some food? We'll meet up at my place at eight. Sounds good?"

"Perfect. Somebody better bring some booze," Tiffany said, sweeping out of the place. Several men turned their heads.

I continued sipping my cappuccino, already planning the video place I would stop by. I paused mid-gulp when Ann started weeping. "What's wrong, Ann?" Amy asked quickly. She shot me a questioning look, and I shrugged.

"Oh, I know I shouldn't care, but I still love him so much," Ann sobbed, covering her red face.

Amy and I exchanged a long look. Now it was clear. Ann was just saying she was OK while Raye was here, because Raye would go off on another lecture about not needing a man to fulfill your life if she started moping.

A woman shot Ann a half-curious, half-scolding look. I could see that coming back here wouldn't be a good choice. Good thing there were so many other Starbuck's around. "Look, you just need to forget about him. Get out there, have some fun." I raked my brain for some break-up wisdom, but came up shorthanded. "Ooh! I know, how about we double date tomorrow night? I could find someone, and you'll forget about that prick Mark in a second!" Amy was slowly shaking her head, in a way that Ann couldn't see.

"But I'm not ready to start dating," she sobbed quietly. She hugged her green jacket closer to her chest, (which did not go at all with her red hair, I'm sad to say) as she continued her crying. See, this is really, why I don't get involved with men. No matter how careful you are not to let yourself feel anything for them, they still manage to break your heart and stomp on it and then some for good measure.

I leaned in closer, partly to make sure Ann could hear me over her hiccupping, and partly to avoid anyone seeing the look of embarrassment on my face. "Well, you don't have to start dating. You can just go out, and see that there are other great guys out there, so you don't need to cling to Mark. He obviously didn't see how great you were." I laid my hand on hers in a gesture of reassurance.

"Mina may be right. You can't wallow in self-pity, since he's obviously serious about breaking up. And, there are plenty of men who would _love_ to take you out. How about giving _them_ a chance?" Amy suggested, nodding intelligently. Amy is the sort of person who exudes intelligence. She could be telling you how to tie your shoelaces, and make it seem like some super-smart chemical engineering lecture. Her words seemed to break through to Ann, who was no longer sobbing. She just sort of stared at us quietly. See, our goal was to make Ann get over Mark by making him seem uncaring and completely oblivious to the fact she needed some kind of serious commitment/insurance in order to continue the relationship. But not enough to make Mark look like a total bastard. Then Ann would want to retaliate, which could get her into trouble.

I love Ann, but she's a bit off her rocket sometimes. It's just that regular laws don't seem to apply to her when she's seeking revenge. I tell you, she's a scary chick to have on your tail.

"Oh, all right, all right. I'll go on your stupid double date. Stop staring at me like that."

---

The last two days just seemed to rush by. The girl's night went down so nicely. Ann, now more than willing to be set up, (I thought about this as I dressed for the upcoming double date).

I spent an hour getting ready. My hair was very long, so it took extra time to style it properly, but by now, I was a pro. Next, I had to wax my legs, which I normally do at a spa, but there was no time. I had no desire to go into the freezing cold. Bad enough I'd have to hike to The Terrier, where we would be eating.

Kyle, my date and a very important guy at Ann's advertising company, would be picking me up in half an hour, which left me just enough time to put the finishing touches to my face and survey the results. Well, except for my lipstick, which I put on before heading out the door.

Right before a date, or any social engagement that revolves around dinner, I usually have a light meal (well, maybe a thick chicken sandwich isn't light per se) so I don't appear to be a total pig at dinner, or, even worse, have my stomach grumbling loud enough for those outside the restaurant to hear. Hell, we all do it, but no one's honest enough to admit it. Hmm, maybe if we all stopped worrying about how much we eat in front of other people and just went for it, it would be a lot easier. Except, you know, you don't really know the person that well for them to witness what a pig you are -- cuisine-wise. And besides, the sandwich tasted great.

Before completing my make-up in front of the dress mirror with a soft rosy color, I assessed my outfit. Yes, it was a bit too late to change it now if I didn't like it, but I did like it, and thus was staring at my reflection in a total state of lust/love. Someone once said that I should have gone into clothing instead of headhunting, which is funny, because I originally came out to New York City to be a fashion designer. OK, so not a very original idea, but I did love clothes, so I figured why not earn top money at one of the huge labels. Bad news: every other designer thought the exact same thing, so competition for the tiniest, shittiest little place was fierce. I was offered a decent job at a firm, and I quit fashion without looking bad. And really, good things did come out of it. I met Raye, who (although she hasn't yet reached the ranks of worldwide supermodel fame) is a very popular model, and I met Tipper, a very good, very trendy designer. No one knew why he was called Tipper (and he'd denied that it was a Tipper Gore reference).

Fortunately, my sense of fashion did not leave me, which was clearly displayed with the elegant yet suggestive suit I was wearing. Yes, it hadn't come cheaply, but in New York City -- where everyone is cold towards you and image is everything -- this was about as right as it could be. Call it the uniform of Manhattan.

A sharp knock on the door startled me out of my reverie. I glanced at the clock, and made sure that there were no smudges on my face before calling out, "Coming!" I opened the door and smiled at Kyle, who was about my height with light brown hair and of medium build. We met at the Christmas party for my firm, where I had apparently given him my phone number before getting completely and totally loaded. His call came while I was lounging on my sofa, still wearing my slinky dress, watching TV, and nursing my hangover. "Hi, there," I said, beaming at him. Kyle was wearing a very nice, black suit with polished black designer shoes. His hair was clean and without gel, I noted approvingly.

"Ready to go?" he asked, his eyes roaming over my body.

"Yep, let's go," I said, quickly grabbing my purse and coat, locking the door behind me. "Shall we?"

During the ride to the restaurant, we kept the conversation light and casual. After graduating from Columbia at the age of twenty-four, he went straight into advertising. It was recently that he had been promoted to the executive position. I gave a brief outline of my job, leaving out the boring details.

The taxi pulled up beside The Terrier, and we got out. Kyle paid the driver as I stood waiting. Under other circumstances, I would have gotten all feminist and demand he let me pay, but I forgot my cash. I hoped Kyle would be coming back with me, or else I'd have to walk home.

As we made our way into the cool restaurant, I kept an eye out for Ann. Guilt surged within when I realized that in the midst of basking in the sexual potential of this date with Kyle, I totally forgot about her break-up and emotional distress. I breathed a sigh of relief when I spotted her red-brown head of hair. This meant that she had made it to the restaurant, and hadn't been arrested or jailed for either torching Mark's expensive apartment or any other illegal activity only Ann could dream up.

As I caught her eye, I waved, indicating we'd be right over. Kyle gave his name and we were led to our table by a tired-looking waiter. As we approached, I noticed Ann's date--a friend of Kyle's--who was sort of good-looking in a very unconventional way. His hair was receding and his eyes were very round, almost prodding out of his head. He was thin to the point of being bony and was unsuccessfully clad in an expensive suit that sort of hung from his shoulders.

Ann and this guy were eyeing each other suspiciously, neither able to throw caution to the wind and acquire that little glimmer of hope that just maybe this person would be the one, and the long, exhausting search for a partner would finally be over.

The waiter pulled out my chair for me, and I sat down across from Ann, with Kyle beside me. I gave the restaurant a little sweep, noting the people and decorations. There was the pleasant buzz of conversation, and I spotted a couple of famous faces amongst the diners.

"Hey, Pete. This is Mina. Mina, this is my good buddy, Pete," Kyle said, jerking his head in the direction of the weary man. "I'm Kyle," he added, glancing momentarily at Ann.

While looking as if I were paying attention, I quickly gave Ann the once-over. I couldn't see what she was wearing below her waist since the table obscured my view, but she wore a very nice cashmere sweater in a shade of deep purple. Adorning her delicate ears, a pair of elegant amethyst earrings.

"Hi, Pete," I greeted obligatory. I never did like double dates, especially with men I only just met. You never know if you'll hit it off, and if you don't, it'd be twice as awkward. I gave Ann a shot, something along the lines of, "Are you having fun?" She shrugged moodily.

"So, Pete, what do you do?" I asked a little nervously, as Kyle frowned at the tense silence that had descended upon the table.

Suddenly, Pete's eyes glinted excitedly. "I'm a stockbroker," he almost shouted. His face was flushed with pink, and I could see Ann rolling her eyes out of the corner of my eye.

The thing is -- I don't even know what a stockbroker is. "Uh, and do you enjoy doing that?" I asked a little unnecessarily. Unfortunately, a little flicker of dread shivered within my stomach like an angry viper. Oh, God, hopefully I haven't just set myself up to having to listen to Pete having orgasms about his job for the next thirty minutes.

"Oh, you have no idea!" he gushed, his previously cold manner vanishing. "I know what people think, but it's the most fulfilling thing ever. Do you know that only yesterday..." and my mind tuned his voice out. It's awful, because I have no control over what I'm listening to at any time. But if it's boring, or something I have no interest in whatsoever, my mind just jumps in and shuts off. I don't even know how I managed to graduate from high school.

I quickly glanced at Kyle and Ann; both slumped over in their seats, looking as if they'd slip into a coma at any moment. I tried to stifle a laugh, but ended up making a weird choking noise.

"What's so funny?" Pete demanded. His eyes hardened.

"Nothing!" I moaned in agony. The last thing I need is for Pete to storm out of here, leaving Ann moping about. OK, OK, so I don't want her to mope, purely for selfish reasons, as I wouldn't get any peace with Kyle.

Our table lapsed into an uncomfortable silence -- Ann shooting me angry looks. When the waiter came to take our orders, we all rattled off our choices. As he disappeared behind the tables filled with rich, elegant people, I racked my brain for some topic of conversation. Anything, at this point, so that at least one of us would talk. But honestly, I was tired. Kyle had remained silent thus far, and Ann was being difficult. I was considering calling sick, and slinking off to my apartment to brood. "So, are you seeing anyone special?" I blurted before thinking.

Pete's face darkened considerably. "Not anymore. I was with this woman for about a year, but then she started nagging about getting engaged and wanting me to move in with her. I don't want any of that shit." He shook his head, as if disbelieving anyone would ever take up such an option. "Damn women, can't even relax and give me some space. It's always not enough. Sometimes I think the only thing that would make them happy is if we're locked in a room for the rest of our lives, being miserable," he said, sneering.

Ann's eyes narrowed as she listened. She stared at Pete with a furious expression. I could tell that something was going to go down. "So you want to have a girlfriend, and spend a while dating her, but not actually move to anything more? Do you think dicking girls around who are looking to settle down can be justified? Maybe you should be upfront with them, so they know what a prick you are, and not waste their time on you. And maybe you should grow the hell up! I know you men think you're God's gift to women, but that's probably because all the women you've dated have been blinded by the fact that you might be ready to settle down!" Ann's face was growing redder and redder. She was breathing heavily, and I could tell she was just seconds away from strangling Pete -- not that I could blame her -- and it was sort of my fault that I brought her out to witness this spectacle. But I hadn't exactly known the guy would be a carbon copy of Mark. Why wasn't this working?

Pete began to laugh as Ann and I recoiled. Kyle just sank further into his seat, staring on silently at this impromptu freak show. "You know, why am I not surprised? That's all you women want, to trap some poor bastard and suck the life out of him. Right, well, I don't give a shit. I'm young and I'm out to have some fun, not marry some desperate chick and have a house full of screaming kids." Pete grinned maliciously at us.

"Now, Pete, come on. Don't you think you're being a little unfair?" Kyle asked.

"Pete, and I do this out of the kindness of my heart, don't fool yourself. I doubt any woman would want to give birth to the kids of a misogynist, smug bastard like you. All we want is for you men to show us that you're at least in it for the long haul. I don't want to spend a year and a half with a guy only to find out that we haven't moved from step one." Ann's eyes were getting misty, and her lips were trembling. I reached out to squeeze her hand, but she moved away. "Excuse me, I have to go."

And before I could call after her, she rushed out of the restaurant. Pete stared after her with an unreadable expression on his face. Finally, he stood up and looked at Kyle. "I may as well go, too. Enjoy your date." He left in a dignified manner.

As they each left in their turn, I noticed that some people were glancing at us. How loud had Ann and Pete gotten in their argument? And why was I always being stared at whenever I'm out with Ann?

"I'm sorry about that," Kyle groaned, his head in his hands.

"It was hardly your fault," I said, reassuringly. Although I was a little put-off at Kyle's lack of balls, I wasn't ready to end this night on an abrupt note. My sister's son's birthday party was tomorrow and I needed someone to take my mind off things. And since it would be a little unfair to call Richard on short notice, Kyle seemed like my best bet. "How about we head over to my place?" I asked, in what I perceived to be an inviting tone. I smiled seductively at Kyle, whose eyes had taken on an understanding glint.

He motioned to the waiter with a short, pointed gesture. "Sure. Let me handle the check."

It took several minutes for Kyle to sort everything out, and explain the departure of both Ann and Pete, and our own. When the waiter got a little testy and difficult, Kyle agreed to pay for the meals. We grabbed our outerwear, and headed outside, making the rookie mistake of not calling a taxi beforehand.

There's a sort of requirement I need all the men I go to bed with to have, I should tell you. And that is one date. After a date, sleeping with someone doesn't feel as sleazy as it otherwise would if it were a guy off the street. Of course, there are exceptions: one, vacations don't count…two, if I'm too horny to wait… And three, if I've slept with the guy before.

---

It took us all of half an hour to get back to my place. We shivered as we made our way into my building, and could hardly keep our hands off each other once the elevator doors shut. Kyle was kissing my neck when the doors sprang open, and found ourselves faced with Mrs. Wilker, an old, extremely self-righteous lady that lived on my floor. She was a widow, left with a sizeable will by her husband, and stuck her nose up at just about anyone she met. We had gone up and down the elevator several times. She pointed out that my shoes were NOT what ladies in -- her day -- wore, and implied that I looked like a whore. "Really, Mina," she exclaimed, her thinly pencilled eyebrows knotted together. "I don't expect to get caught up in the middle of an intimate session when I wait for the elevator... Although I'm not surprised; after all, I haven't seen you do anything that implied you had anything like a decent reputation." Her sharp green eyes honed in on us, having broken apart and panting. As we tripped out of the elevator, she made her way past us, directing a stony glare our way as the lift doors closed upon her stormy face -- then was gone.

Kyle and I stood in the hallway, staring at the spot where Mrs. Wilker had stood ten seconds before. Both of us bewildered and put off our sexual escapades by the old cow. Then, for a reason I didn't know, I started laughing -- the kind of laughter where you double over and have to clutch your stomach in case you collapse. It wasn't long before Kyle joined me, and we stood there, practically howling, in the middle of a pretty sophisticated hallway, with wealthy people holed up in their apartments, separated from us by thin walls.

"Come on, c'mon..." I hiccupped, after I calmed down a little. Behaving spontaneously and recklessly was so much fun, but knowing the kind of tight-asses that lived here, we'd have the cops on our hands for causing a disturbance if we didn't stop.

I grabbed his hand and led him to my door, frantically searching for my keys. Once inside, we resumed kissing until I felt his hand snake around my waist, squeezing and kneading. "Mmmm," he groaned his approval.

I shut the door with my heel and stumbled into my apartment, grabbing at each other like ravenous beasts. After several minutes, when his impatience was blatantly obvious, I untangled myself and started taking off my clothes. I know that having Kyle rip them off would be so much sexier and in accord with the program of the evening, but I didn't exactly pick this outfit up for free. So I unbuttoned my top, and kicked off my heels.

I looked up to see Kyle staring hungrily at my exposed flesh. "Undo your hair," he whispered, huskily.

I complied, letting it fall against my back. Kyle was breathing heavily, knotting his hand around my blonde locks. Actually, I should mention -- _natural _blonde locks -- by some miracle of nature, I ended up with naturally silky blonde hair. Honestly, it just stays looking so smooth and shiny without my ever needing to get it done at the hairdressers. Every woman at work envies it -- hey, I'm allowed to be smug about this, though!

Kyle cupped my chin, staring into my eyes intently. "God, it's so nice to see a full-figured woman. I'm so damn tired of all those bones poking out at me." He was smiling, and I was smiling back at him until the words registered. What...is he calling me fat?

"Uh, what?" I mumbled unintelligibly.

"Well, I mean that you're not some starved, size-0 stick. You've got that healthy weight, which is incredibly sexy," he said, going in for a kiss. I just stood there, gaping at him, unsure how to react. "Mmmm," he moaned again. "I forgot how great it is to be with a big woman."

_That_ had me frozen to the spot. "Big woman?" I exclaimed feeling wounded. Since when have I become -- a big -- woman? _What is happening_, I thought, bewildered, as my world came crashing down around me. BIG? But...but I was only a size eight.

Kyle must have gotten the idea while I stood there, staring at him, confused and hurt. "Oh." His face contorted into a weird expression. "I didn't mean it like that."

Suddenly, I felt tired, lonely, vulnerable, and very stupid, standing in my bra and skirt. All my boastings about nice hair felt like a lie, as I stood half-naked in front of a man who had called me fat. "I think you should go," I said quietly, edging toward the door. I needed to be alone, and I could not stomach anyone seeing me at my worst.

When Kyle started protesting, I held the door open and waited until he strode out. "I'll call you," he said as he headed out, leaving me miserable. I closed the door, and faced the empty apartment. Now that I was alone inside, I wanted to be with someone, because this really gutted me, and I had that birthday to go to tomorrow.

For the first time in several years, I felt very depressed. I sank down on the sofa and closed my eyes. It was like that time when I first came to New York City, not knowing anyone, without any friends, and living in a tiny, shitty apartment. But I didn't give up, even after just about every fashion house I applied to turned me down, and look where I am today. I have great friends, live in a very cool apartment building, and hold an important job. But now that seems trivial, because now I discover that everyone thinks I'm fat behind my back. All these years I have thought I had it all: money, friends, glamorous life and the looks to go with it. I bought all those cool suits and sexy skirts, and paraded around town, thinking I obviously looked good. But I hadn't, not really, because what I thought was good wasn't what everyone else thought. And even though I may have looked good, by another city's standards, in NYC, I was more than a size 0, so therefore I had to be regarded as an obese fat-bag. And all those men I thought were falling over themselves to sleep with me -- were they all looking for a "big woman" too, but just didn't tell me?

I almost wanted to cry, because I hadn't been so uncertain in a long time. Is it just me being insecure, or do people really see me as fat? Do those men want me for me, or because I wasn't model-skinny? Should I continue with this and not pay attention to what Kyle had just said, or should I agonize over it, because he only told the truth…what? What to do? What?

That night, I went to bed alone, cold, and for the first time in my life, scared.

------------------------

Woo! Done another. Review, and tell me what you think!


	3. Doubts, Diapers, and Danielle

AN: Hey, guys! Here is chapter 3. Sorry for the enormous delay, you know how these things are, sometimes you feel like writing and sometimes you don't for a month. Hope you enjoy.

**The Real Hedonist**

_Chapter 3: Doubts, Diapers, and Danielle_

When I had woken up, it took me a few minutes to remember what had happened the night before -- that Kyle thing...ugh. I lay in my bed for half an hour, unwilling to get up and start thinking about what I should do.

Honestly, it's as if Abby knew I was going to feel like shit today of all days, and therefore intentionally scheduled her son's birthday on the same day. Ok, Ok, so I may be going a little out of line, but I just feel so miserable, and unsure.

I mean, I just... I didn't think I was fat, that's all. I know lots of girls who aren't fat waltz around throwing up and becoming anorexic, and generally annoying everyone with their proclamations of obesity. It's just, when did everyone get together and decide that if you're above size 0, you're automatically a lard-ass, and therefore cast out of all the fun, a victim now the object of snide remarks?

Honestly, if Kyle was suggesting I was fat to my face, what must those haughty, skinny bitches with their perfect hair and two percent body fat be giggling about behind my back? There's nothing worse than someone who's superior to you (especially in body weight) acting nasty toward you.

Ah, I hate everyone. And I certainly don't want to go anywhere. It's too cold. I wish I could stay inside my apartment until it's spring and hibernate in peace.

Worst of all is the fact that Abby will probably have an army of power-moms with her, so I'll be treated like a freak because I'm in my late 20's and I don't have a litter of babies crawling all over my apartment and a rich, boring husband in the background. As if everyone wants the same thing out of life, to marry as soon as possible and spend all one's time popping out babies.

And, honestly, I'm not going on about this because nobody ever asked me to be their girlfriend, or something. In fact, I turn down just about every guy that does, because I enjoy having some quiet when I step into my humble abode.

Just then, the phone rang. I pick it up warily, hoping it's not Kyle calling to apologize. "Mina?" Tipper trills, obviously very happy.

"Uh," I grunt grumpily, feeling like something died in my mouth.

"Remember you called me to help you pick out something for your nephew's birthday? Well, I'm just outside your door right now. Get your ass down here."

I check the alarm clock: 10:43. "What are you doing here so early? I meant around 1 o'clock or something."

"Well... how're you supposed to get to Connecticut if we only start shopping at one? Considering how many coffee stops we'll be taking and how many times we'll stop to window shop for shoes. Look, trust me. I know this. I had to buy something for this former model's kid and it took me an entire week to choose something, because once you get in there, you realize there are far too many things and you don't even know what half of them are for. And then there's the problem of getting something too obvious, like a gift basket or something, which everyone will think--"

"You know, you're not being very helpful. Look, how about I meet you down there in thirty minutes?" I offered feeling slightly annoyed. Tipper is a really cool guy, but sometimes he's not exactly Mr. Helpful.

"Oh, all right." He sighs. "I'll be at the coffee shop across the street."

At least the conversation made me forget my problem, which I promptly remember again as I head into the bathroom. Hmm, should I tell Tipper? I know he'll give his honest opinion, but is that good or bad. But then again, I don't exactly like people to see me this vulnerable, either.

Well, at least I'm out of bed, which is good, to tell you the truth. I mean, I know I'm a bit depressed, but I'd probably stay in bed, feeling suicidal, if given a choice. So, I quickly shower, brush my teeth and apply all my make-up, before running out of the bathroom in search of something to wear. Usually, if I have to leave the house on short notice, it takes me ages to find something to wear, because my closet is a total mess and I have trouble finding anything that matches (or that I like on a particular day). I know that in New York, expensive clothes from the top designer lines are essential, and most women (and sometimes men) coo about the latest Fendi scarf or Dior dress, but a lot of it looks as if it wouldn't be purchased for so much as a dollar if it didn't bare a label.

I generally need an hour or so to figure out what mood I'm in, and what clothes I should wear, then find the clothes, make sure they're clean (i.e. not wrinkled or have any stains on them--which would be unbearable, to tell the truth, because most of my clothes are designer faire and a stain is a killer).

So, this morning, I decide on a black-and-white pinstriped shirt with a low neck. Next, I choose Calvin Klein black boot-cut pants and my black Dolce & Gabbana boots. Well, at least I look great, even if I don't have a huge stomach of baby. Not having enough time to do something with my hair, I just knot it on top of my head before grabbing my dark green trench-styled coat and heading out the door.

As the elevator descends, I make up my mind that I would tell Tipper about the -- Kyle incident -- and get it over with. Obviously, I don't know what to do myself, so I'll just have to ask someone else, who happens to be on this occasion, Tipper.

---

As I rush toward Abby's home, impatiently glancing at my expensive Gucci watch, I can't help but feel my spirits lift. I have THE present in my lap -- an unbelievably adorable Gucci baby suit in a green color -- and I look great. I had long since drained my cappuccino, and the cup was rattling on the floor of the car, so I was in a complete state of caffeinated high.

Tipper was great when I told him. He pronounced Kyle insane for calling me "big" because I was apparently at that perfect weight between being as thin as a twig (the Model Syndrome) and healthy weight, but effectively plump.

He told me that I was just a little more womanly than a model, which was healthy, because "I work around lots of them everyday, and you won't believe how many permanently have their head in the toilet and nose in a line of coke to keep their ninety-pound frames." And most importantly, any weight I possess deemed "extra" by some Fashion Show Producer, actually settled in all the right places so that I had nice, natural curves instead of unsightly bulges.

And when it was apparent that I was feeling a little unnerved by this whole conversation, Tipper suggested a – join-a-gym -- if I was that worried and tone up my body.

You see. I knew there was a reason I was friends with him! I'll have to admit, though, that I am not a gym person. I don't do yoga, or Pilates, or cardio or any of that fitness mumbo gumbo. I had grown up with the ancient belief that we are what we eat, so instead of covering laps on the treadmill, I simply watched what I stuffed in my face. But giving the gym a shot seems like a great idea, an additional offence play. I could get some muscle, burn off the fat, and maybe even drop a size or two!

I admit I'm pretty excited just thinking about it. Mingling along all those fit, toned bodies would be such a blast, and I'd be all around men who actually looked after themselves. The thought sends a little shiver of pleasure down my spine.

The scenery passes before my eyes, but I'm not paying attention. I'm already imagining myself emerging from some cool gym, totally thin, leaving Kyle panting as I headed off with some hot, rich bachelor who would fly me to exotic places every month, where we would have hot, erotic sex and Cosmopolitans.

---

"We're here," announces the driver gruffly. I open the door and spring out of the car, glad to stretch my legs. After I pay off the cabbie -- which I admit, is a very high amount -- I walk up to the address I've remembered from those few times I've been to see her. The house is just as I had last seen it, very ordinary and honestly...simply ugly. I notice the colored balloons hanging above the door, as I knock self-consciously.

The door is pushed open and Abby's flushed face peaks through. As soon as she sees it's me, a big grin breaks over her face. "Mina!" she squeals, moving to hug me.

"Hey," I say meekly, returning the hug half-heartedly. I haven't seen Abby since my nephew's birth, so it's been about a year. And you don't just greet people you haven't seen in a year like that, (unless they're your husband-who-works-on-another-continent or something). All right, so she's my sister, but still...we're not exactly joined at the hip or anything. "Come on in. I don't want to catch a cold," she says, ushering me inside.

Abby takes my gift absent-mindedly, and leads me into the living room, where the horde of mommies was already assembled.

The room is decorated in pale _mumsy_-colors with a mantel full of pictures of Andrew, in various states of consciousness. The gifts were piled high on the table in the middle of the room. The women varied in size; some were pretty thin, others sported fat arms and stomachs, smiling and rolling their eyes at you as if they've just told you some groundbreaking secret.

"I don't think you've met everyone, right, Mina?" Abby asks, beaming at the row of women. They all laugh and titter appreciatively.

"Mmmm," I mumble in a non-committal tone. They were freaking me out a bit, all eyeing me up and down and grinning like I'm some skanky blonde, about to give them a check for ten million or something. "This is Eileen," Abby says, pointing at a plump dark-haired woman -- honestly, Eileen... Why do people give their kids Mom-sounding names? Can you imagine a 10-year-old little girl given the name, Eileen? I think this woman was born carrying a baby, or something.

"I've got three," announces Eileen proudly, pointing to the unimpressive pen stationed in the corner of the room, where at least five diapered toddlers were tittering. I couldn't help but frown, because, well, most of these women weren't exactly power-mom material. They were either fat or saddled with lanky hair and oily faces, all dressed in "mom" uniforms of khaki pants and colored shirts.

I mean, I wasn't exactly looking forward to getting sneered at by some Sarah Jessica Parker-styled fab mom, who wore designer suits and fucked her pool boy, but this was a bit depressing. If you're going to advertise the life after the pregnancy, I think a little misleading propaganda is definitely required. Can you blame me for not looking forward to pregnancy and marriage if all I'm going to end up with is an ungrateful brat, a large stomach, and an unsatisfying sex life?

"And this is Lorie," Abby was saying, gesturing to a somewhat slim woman. "She has a seven-year-old daughter, who is unbelievably energetic. Did you know that Mary -- that's her daughter -- plays soccer, does ballet, and has acting lessons? And Lorie coaches the soccer team! And she's--"

"Now, now, Abby, you're embarrassing me," Lorie interrupts, blushing madly. But you could see she loved the attention. Lorie had put her hair up in a careless bun, and was wearing sporty pants with a matching sweatshirt.

"I wouldn't be saying it if it wasn't true," Abby retorts, before moving on. God, I feel like Abby's showing off her horses or something, the way she's walking and pointing.

"Hi, I'm Lucy," exclaims an overweight woman, with a round face and terribly dyed hair. I know it's bitchy to feel this way, but I can't help but be a little smug that I'm so much thinner than her. "My son's in there," she shrieks, pointing to the pen. "We're all -- so in love -- with Andrew. He's the cutest baby ever!"

I wince mentally. She is really _loud_. "And where is my nephew?" I ask helplessly, realizing that for the next couple of hours I would have to pretend I cared about all this baby-baby-bullshit talk. Me and this crew had nothing in common, because they had all probably given up their jobs and lives, while I still clung desperately onto mine. So I resented them for being baby-poppers, and they probably resented me for not being one. I mean, this is not the basis for a healthy friendship. And Raye would kill me if she found out I was being – nice-- to them (thereby encouraging this behaviour of giving up our lives in order to have babies--at least that's how Raye would think of it).

Yes, I do realize I was being a bit of a cliché by badmouthing moms and childbirth, but it's true, isn't it? Very few women manage to stay the same after childbirth. Maybe it was our screwed logic that was wrong, but I couldn't help but think that you should look after yourself even if you're supposed to look after someone else, too.

"Is that Mina?" Oh, God…mom's here…

"Yeah," I bellow back. Me and my mom aren't the best of friends, so I'm not exactly thrilled that she's here. I mean, she's an OK person, but she's so...mean. No wonder I can't commit to a relationship with a man. Look at the state of my family life.

"Mina," Mom says coming out of what I presumed to be the kitchen. She stopped and surveyed my outfit, not bothering to hide a raised eyebrow. "Hon, this really isn't the outfit for a toddler's first birthday…maybe a rock concert, or something," she says disapprovingly -- Rock concert -- as if it's synonymous with death. Did I mention that I rebelled quite a lot as a kid? "We're going for a much more subdued look. But that's OK if you didn't know hon."

She beams at Abby. Also, my sister is the favourite. (And what's wrong with my outfit -- just because I don't dress in boring mumsy-like clothing). Hopefully they have some sort of booze at this do, or I wont last ten minutes. "So, is it still going with Richard?"

One time, when Richard was spending the night at my place, my mom happened to call, and Richard answered the phone by mistake. Immediately, she jumped to the morally wrong (but otherwise right) conclusion that I was just having casual sex and would never get married off anytime soon. I managed to convince her that Richard was a boyfriend, (I managed to do this when he was out of earshot), having to crouch in the bathroom, muffling any sounds by running the water. And now, whenever she asks about him, I mumble something to the effect that it's still on, and quickly change the subject. She's fairly insistent about meeting him, since the way I talk about him is as if we're having children the following year, but frankly, I'll just have to invent some excuse or lie about why he continuously has varying types of illnesses.

I try to ignore the fact I have the attention of everyone in the room. "It's still going, we actually have a date later today," I lie quickly, thinking of a way to change the subject. "I love your sweater, Lucy!" I exclaim hastily, "Where did you get it?"

"Do you know...? It's actually a funny story…"

I visibly relax when Lucy goes off on a long speech, with the other women providing obligatory laughter whenever she pauses expectantly. And you know what? It's not that bad. Sure, it's more painful than a lunch with the girls, but I'm not getting the ache I get whenever I'm surrounded by someone with a child like I usually do. Plus, I am blocking out most of the things Lucy is saying.

Lucy pauses and eyes the door. I snap out of my reverie and try to see what she's staring at. Then I hear the unmistakable sound of muffled yelling. "You know… No matter... And how could you...to me!"

I can't decipher what's happening, but it sounds like a young woman who's yelling. Abbey sees my curious expression and says, "Do you know, it's just Melanie… Poor dear, her daughter is simply too much to handle. Says she wants to be a model…a model! Says she's going to run away if Melanie doesn't give her some space. Of course, Melanie brought her here so she could see the babies… I mean, who doesn't want to have babies? Lorie... your little daughter is just to die for," she frowns at me. "Sorry you had to hear this. It's none of our business, but Danielle -- that's Melanie's daughter -- can't move a step without doing something to get everyone's attention. The poor thing doesn't have any self-esteem... has to compensate by doing ridiculous stuff. I mean a model! Have you heard anything like it?" The ladies titter quietly. Lorie leans in gleefully, almost whispering as if there's a chance Danielle or Melanie could somehow hear her over their shouting. "You know, I'm not surprised that Danielle is chasing after some far-fetched dream. Apparently, Melanie tried to enrol her in every club she could think of... the girl -- she's just not good at _anything_. I heard that she's failing school. Melanie's absolutely _devastated_." I feel the thought coming through, "That's not going to happen to my child" go through everyone's brain.

I glanced back at the door from the direction where the yelling's coming from. "So who's hungry?"

---

After two crust free tuna sandwiches, a can of Ginger ale and a bowl of low-fat vanilla ice cream (which tasted like watered down milk), I say I need some fresh air and head outside. Abbey's backyard has five trees, and a swing. I remember the swing and the trees, because that's where I came out to hide from Peter -- Abbey's obnoxious husband -- when he tried to sit me down to talk. Peter's the most boring man on Earth, I think. Everything he says sounds like he's reading it from the dictionary. I honestly don't know how Abbey can stand him.

In fact, once, I managed to turn the conversation around to fashion (his company was sponsoring the NYCFS -- New York Charity Fashion Show), but then he started digressing until we've arrived at the fascinating topic of the long hours he had to put in on a particular project. In painstakingly fine detail, he recounted how he had spent so many long hours at the office. He then went on to explain how he managed to gain ten pounds as the result of eating nothing but take-out for two months running, and finished off by telling me that he was lucky if he could spend more than twenty minutes with Andrew. I had to keep pinching myself to keep from falling over in boredom.

So I would sit, hidden behind one of the larger trees, chain-smoking the cigarettes I swiped from the counter. I'm not a heavy smoker or anything, but when the pressure gets to me, I do enjoy a cigarette or two.

That's where I head. I hope no one else would come out of the house to the swings, since the last thing I needed now was to make awkward small talk with some obsessed mommy I have nothing in common with.

I duck behind one of the larger trees, and stop in surprise. There's a young girl sitting on the swing, taking short drags from her cigarette and muttering under her breath. Since she looks too young to be an accomplished mother (although who knows anymore in this world?) and since I haven't seen her at the baby shower, I assume she's not here for the party.

I stand awkwardly, not knowing whether to make a big deal and find out who she is, or quickly slip away, hoping she didn't notice. I don't want anyone to come out, so I opt to slink away and take a walk around the block. I start edging my way behind the tree when I step on a twig and she turns around.

_She's beautiful_, is the first thought that enters my mind. She has an oval face with big, doe-like eyes and rouged cheekbones that contrast prettily against her pale skin. Her hair is long and black, and cascades down her back in completely straight currents. She's the sort of girl you might have seen photographed in magazines, and even if you spend hours trying to copy the look, you would never quite get it.

The girl stares at me, her eyes narrowed. She looks like a pissed-off Amazon who somehow happened to travel in time and don modern clothes.

Well, I can't leave now, can I? Damn it. "Hi," I say lamely.

"Yeah?" she says grudgingly.

My eyes trail down to the grass. Oh, for god's sake! I feel like I'm back in high school, getting called to the principal's office for smoking pot. This girl's about half my age!

_Quickly_, I think. _Make an excuse_. "I'm just looking for Abbey's dog. He's not here. Huh. I guess I'll just go check the house again," I babble before I can think.

The girl's eyes aren't narrowed anymore, but she looks at me as though I'm a lunatic. "Abbey doesn't have a dog."

"Oh, right…right! You know, what I meant was, I just needed to go for a walk. Stress, you know. A couple of work problems and you start confusing your friend, Amy," I say randomly, "who has a dog, with your sister."

There's an awkward silence while we both stare at each other. "So, are you a neighbor?" I ask her finally, literally the only thing I can think of. I start worrying a spot in the grass with the heel of my shoe, uncomfortable with the conversation, but unable to make myself leave. It's either hanging around here and talking to this girl, or go back inside and face a gaggle of drunk mothers shrieking and laughing about some obscure event at the playground.

"Not exactly," she says eventually. "I'm here with my mom."

"Oh, I see," I say faintly. Wow, is this girl weird, or what? When I was her age, the last thing I would have wanted to do would be to have to tag along to a baby shower. "Are you having fun?" I ask cautiously, hoping she won't go off on a rant of how she loves babies and wants one, now.

Her gaze is surly when she looks at me and, dragging on her cigarette, she says, "No, I'm not."

"Right, well. I-I'll go back inside. It was nice to meet you." I'm turning around; about to quickly jog back into the house when something comes into my mind. Wait, those two people I heard arguing before. The mother and daughter -- is this Danielle? What's so important, though? She wants to be, something -- a model!

Right, now I remember. The daughter wanted to be a model, and her mother objected. I turned quickly, this time giving her a more critical look. Well, it wasn't my imagination. She's stunning... in fact, she's almost impossible to describe. Just the way her face is so angular, and her doe-eyes peer at you. She wasn't sexy, per se, just completely striking. I'm surprised I didn't see this earlier, but I could easily imagine her stalking down the runway, wearing some designer slip. "You're Danielle," I say, turning to face her, my confidence restored.

"Yeah?" the girl says in confirmation.

"I'm Mina. I've... heard that you wanted to be a model." I stand there looking at her. She stared back at me without expression, her full mouth forming a straight line.

"So?"

"Well, I think I can help you. No, I'm _sure_ I can help you," I say, smiling at her.

"You can help me," she echoes, and doesn't move. She's still staring at me, as though bored with the conversation. "_How_ are you going to help me?" she asks with amusement. She obviously thinks it's a joke, so I have to work her around.

I move forward, a wide smile plastered on my face. "Absolutely, you're got a look. That's all we need. The rest is up to marketing. If you play it right, see the right people, you'll be huge. I know the right people." Her body remains relaxed, but I could see the interest in her eyes. I've got her; all I have to do is seal the deal.

"Why are you doing this?" she asks.

That was a good question: why was I doing this, aside from the obvious monetary pay-off? Sure, this girl was beautiful, with hopes of becoming a top model. But you'd see hundreds of girls like her just by walking the streets of Manhattan. Truth be told, I saw a little of myself in her -- the same girl with a mother who refused to accept me and my vague dreams of fashion success. Except in my case, no one helped me get anywhere. So now, I have a chance to help someone the way I wanted someone to help me when I was her age. I decided to take advantage of this opportunity. Also, I wanted to prove to myself I could grasp every such opportunity that comes my way. Besides, if she makes it -- and I've been the one who discovered her -- this could really impress the boss. "You'd look great on the runway. I can see it. Anyway, a friend of mine who works in fashion is looking for some fresh talent," I lied expertly, "and it'd be stupid if I don't help him." I pause, and look at her, her mouth set in a firm line, full lips and cheekbones signalling a certain air of arrogance. "I don't want to get your hopes up, because you might not be cut out for the runway, but if you're interested, I'll help you out."

"Uh-huh," she replies, her body language still tense. "And _why_ should I trust you?" She probes, as she gracefully slicks one of her black strands behind her ear.

I pause, considering my words carefully. "You're absolutely right. You have no reason to trust me." I take in her look of surprise. "But I know that you've got nothing to lose. I'll give you my business card. Get in touch with me, and I'll arrange a meeting. If you don't like it, or if you change your mind, there's no pressure. We'll go our separate ways. But if you don't take this opportunity, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

I reach in and pull out an emergency business card from my pocket and extend it to her (so I was persistent and prepared; could you blame me? I worked in a cutthroat field).

Danielle stares at it, and for a second, I think she's going to say "No thanks," but then she reaches out and takes it. "I'll call you," is all she says, holding the card as if it would break any second.

"Please do. I've got to go back in, all right?"

She nods silently, looking at me with an observant expression. I smile at her one last time, turn around, and am already at the door. "Mina?" she says quietly.

I turn around once more, half-prepared for a wave of gratitude. "You don't know me, and you don't know what I will or will not regret. Got it?" I couldn't detect any malice or dislike in her tone, and her face was a mask of relaxation.

I nod mutely, not sure, if I like her more or less. She's certainly different from the models I've met.

"I'll talk to you soon," Danielle concludes, giving me a fraction of a smile.

And as I walk back into the house, I can't help shake the feeling that I've been dismissed.


End file.
